local to local
Daily observations at or near Two Dot Spot, written by hand on the backs of postcards that record with ink and coffee a few minutes of the earth's orbit around the sun. The cards are physically mailed from Two Dot, Montana to those who have requested them...local to local. Ruth Marie Tomlinson
8.19.2010
A night full of worry over transition, over being neither here nor there; dreams often being the field in which we play out the underworld, the world too hard to face waking. I recently read about the intervals of darkness used in film making that allow us to transition. Without the darkness there would only be a blur. So I am seeing the light of this nearly cloudless Montana day because of the darkness of night, and will find my way back to Seattle because of the space in between.
8.20.2010
8.18.2010
Cloud cover is accumulating fast so we can't stay long, but we did reach Daisy Peak (7759 ft elev) on our own power, hiking up the back side. "It is steep," everyone said, and they were right. We took an hour to walk just over a mile. But here we are with Dad, leaving him a couple of rock stacks and an all black feather found here on the peak. A quick kiss on his marker left the mark of my mouth for just a moment.
8.17.2010
We drove to the Vestal Place in the afternoon turning off Haymaker Road, driving over the bluff to drop into the Haymaker Creek valley, where the water hasn't run in 20 years. Richard said it recently trickled into the creek bed at the edge of the property. Upstream at the narrows the stream runs strong, this the second wet year after drought. Maybe next year the water will run a little further.
8.16.2010
We work at neglected projects in our last days: fencing the hedge from the ravages of rabbits and rutting deer, painting the foyer, scrubbing the floor. Why didn't we do these things earlier? In the words of my summer mentor, Rebecca Solnit, we surrendered to the story line rather than trying to tell the story ourselves. So the last chapter of summer writes itself and we find ourselves in the work of finishing.
8.15.2010
Every summer an author captures my studio. This summer Rebecca Solnit hums in the quiet. Solitude in the city is about the lack of other people or rather their distance beyond a door or wall, but in remote places it isn't an absence but the presence of something else, a kind of humming silence in which solitude seems as natural to your species as to any other. RS
8.14.2010
8.13.2010
8.12.2010
8.11.2010
8.10.2010
We went walking just as dusk gave way to dark. Deep bruising clouds in the distance occasionally illuminated by lightning veins, but the thunder report was long in coming and the air was still. We kept walking...not far, but nearly to the bridge. A ruffle of wind around the ears suggested it was time to turn back. And just in the act of turning our bodies toward home, the wind gained force and a drop of rain hit the back of my neck. All down Wilson street our pace picked up matching the increasing wind speed. Cutting through the old fire hall yard to save a minute and working toward a trot on 2nd street the purple clouds at our heels the wind pushing branches stiffly east. Lightning flashed behind us, but when it flashed in front we each took our own pace and ran for the school house door. Nothing dearer than escaped danger.
8.9.2010
8.8.2010
The imprint of Elizabeth's body is still in the dry stubble of my lawn left from her afternoon of nursing a headache; as is a stretch in the hammock ropes that held Elizabeth's Jim as he delinquently read his book. There are drips and splashes still on the kitchen floor left from Lynnette's preparations of my birthday dinner, some drips replaced by Rafie's lick marks... evidence of Lynnette's way with dogs. Two small rocks are still in the yard, left from holding down John's music as he played the accordion for me. Small traces only detectable by me; songs sung in my own language.
8.6.2010
The sky filled over as I drove home just before nine. Once inside the schoolhouse a lightning storm filled the sky completely with sheets of light at least every ten seconds... each window an illuminated square, the hills silhouetted beyond the yard, and fields in full full view. I wanted to stay awake and watch, but betrayed by tiredness slept under flashes.
8.5.2010
8.4.2010
8.3.2010
8.2.2010
8.1.2010
7.31.2010
7.30.2010
7.29.2010
7.28.2010
7.27.2010
Back again. Early in the morning I heard the sandhill cranes, but the meadow larks seem to be gone, a few magpies taking their place. It has been very very quiet. The sky has been full of beautiful clouds, but they block the sun's directness. This afternoon, just enough light in the kitchen to manage this card.
7.5.2010
7.4.2010
7.3.2010
7.1.2010
Full sun...a few scattered clouds. Meadowlarks, sandhill cranes, magpies and what might be vespar sparrows, rabbits in the yard, cows in the field and dogs in the backs of pick-ups. Yesterday morning was brilliant followed by an afternoon storm. We worked in the schoolhouse with lights blazing and old school cassette music. No where to go with the car a drenching away.
6.30.2010
6.29.2010
Delores Olson is raising pheasant chicks because a neighbor ran over the hen. there were 18 eggs recovered. Delores took them on, keeping them in a chicken incubator. All but two hatched. She's feeding them turkey scratch and will keep them until it runs out, hopefully 6 weeks when they should be strong enough to fend for themselves. She's only lost one chick. they are beautifully spotted and lively.
6.28.2010
6.27.2010
6.26.2010
Green '46 Chevy pick-up. Ben in his town clothes and white hat was greeted as a local and happy to tell the story of his ranch truck...purchased by his father new. Later the two of them re-built the engine. Ben stood in front of the front grill with the hood open while other "classic" car owners wandered. He always had a group of other ranchers gathered talking and laughing.
6.25.2010
6.23.2010
The wind took a small limb from the cottonwood. I left it at the front door to think what to do with it...wanting each loss to find a purpose or use. It remained there for days untouched until one morning I discovered every leaf eaten from its branches. A night visitation. I hadn't seen deer in the yard, but the next dusk there was a pair of velvet antlers bending to tender leaves just out my window.